


Electrical Iterations

by Azenlove



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Imprinting, Latex, Machines, Master/Pet, Mind Manipulation, Obedience, Other, Partial Mind Control, Pet Names, Pokemon, Robotics, Rubber, Soldiers, Suits, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25991887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azenlove/pseuds/Azenlove
Summary: As a new army recruit with only brains to make up for your wimpy lack of muscle, you're drafted into an experimental weapons programme. If the military can turn a scrawny person like your into a fighting machine, then anybody can become a solider! Though, this new method involves a lot of electricity, rubber, and a neural implant to control the cutting-edge latex suit! Who cares if you're forced to wear squeaky latex when it makes you bigger, better, and stronger? Even if such thought's aren't entirely your own...! A robotic Luxray transformation.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Electrical Iterations

"Ha! The nerd squad must have rolled in!" One of the lads from the mess tables shouted as you took a seat. "They doing sign-ups at comic stores now?" 

Having arrived during the lunch hour rush, it was no wonder you got a hollering. You typically avoided peak times. 

Since joining the recruitment scheme two months ago, you'd received the brunt of savage banter thrown around the newest soldiers. It didn't help that you were short, skinny, and pimpled. That alone was enough for you to get mocked in a unit which rewarded masochism and manliness. You weren't exactly prime fighting material. 

"Shut it." Your only friend, a tubby guy named Bob, had the decency to stick up for you. "Pick on somebody who can take it!" 

The backhanded support received a chuckle. 

"So, Sparky. How's work?" Bob strikes up conversation as the cafeteria returns to a hum of loud chatter. The man eyes you over his food, rolling a spoon around a bowl of slop. He's barely touched the meal. Nobody ever enjoys the gruel the mess serves. 

**Sparky**. It's a nickname you've grudgingly come to accept. 

Well, it could be worse. You'd gained the title from your involvement in the corps experimental weapon's programme, the only thing for which you deserved merit. Given you had both the strength and a physique of a bean pole, at least you could make up for it with your brains. Then again, rumours of your trip to the medical ward after electrocuting yourself with the test equipment had spread like wildfire. Sparky. At least the name sounded kinda cool…? 

"Yeah. It's going." You mutter, swallowing a mouthful of cold gruel. 

You don't say precisely how well it's going. Not from the mediocre results you've been receiving, but because of the _true_ nature of the programme was under top security. Bio-weaponry. The future of warfare. A way of integrating natural, _elemental,_ weapons into soldiers for use in the field. You'd thought that the scheme might at least brought you some positive reputation… 

What didn't help, however, was that the technology was based on the capabilities of _Pokemon_. And, to most of the college drop-outs who made up the fresh recruits, that was something with which to mock. The open ridicule was grating. Sparky the nerd! Haha! Joins the army to play Pokemon. You can't even help without electrocuting yourself! 

To be honest, weaponry based on ideas taken from the fictional world of battling monsters wasn't all that preposterous. It's kinda what happens when the geeks you teased in high school get jobs involved with designing damage-dealing weapons of the future. They all played Dungeons and Dragons in their break periods. You were a bit jealous of that. 

Bob noticed your sour mood. 

"Let me guess, electrocution and second-degree burns again?" 

"Yeah yeah. Very funny." You grumble, leaving your bowl of slop mostly untouched. "But I've got to rush. I've got testing this afternoon."

Bob just grunted and waved you away rather dismissively. Sometimes even he didn't want to be associated with such a disappointing recruit like yourself. 

You dumped your tray into the rack and marched yourself back over to the testing facilities. 

It's a relief to work in the research labs. They're clean and don't stink of sweat and testosterone. The science guys are still soldiers, however. They're all built like brick houses and order you around like the fresh recruit you are. It's something you've become used to. Jump to obey orders, work hard, and keep your head down. 

"Hey. Sparky, you're late!" Your assigned technology manager calls over. "You should have been here five minutes ago!"

Your handler's name is Jim. He's a typical army guy. He barks rather than talks, expecting you to jump to attention with every order. Crew cut, green jacket, and a perpetual scowl. Everything you hate about the military. Beneath the harsh exterior, though, Jim has a soft spot for the weak soldiers like yourself. 

'Handler' is an archaic term, but it means he's the tech assistant who manages the kit you've been tasked with testing. He handles weapons so uh, _handler_...? You can sort of see where the term is derived. 

Jim gives you a knuckle rub as you duck through the door, steering you towards a steel table. It's a friendly gesture, if a little painful.

"That can be your punishment for tardiness! Now, business."

The reason you're involved with the development programme is shady at best. Partly, you think it's from your past experience and interest in weaponry. Mostly, You reckon it's to see if such weapons can turn average guys like yourself into decent soldiers. Or _below average_ , if you could compare yourself to the rest of the recruits. 

"Ok. We've got the electrogun." Jim's voice rarely rises above a monotone, "This thing's combined into the gloves now, so you can direct it. The rubber will insulate you from the static. No more nasty shocks like last time. Alright? We don't want yet another trip to the medical ward." 

"Yessir." The reply is quick but you continue to hesitate, staring at the rubber gauntlets. 

Jim gives you a friendly push on the back, 

"Go on then. Try them on. See what you think. Then we've got some new kit to try out...!" 

Following orders, you don't have time to study the strange gloves until they're fitted and stretched up to your elbows. 

The gauntlets are made of thick rubber for protection against the electrical charges generated in the sleeves. Black on top, stripes of yellow and blue underneath cover the real beast. A four-thousand-volt electrical arc-gun directed at will from the padded fingers of your hands. That was the plan, anyhow. The black rubber is so thick that it spills around the rest of your forearms, a guard as much an insulating shield. With both of the gloves fitted, your fingers are padded out into rounded black digits. It's incredibly uncomfortable. Your hands are stuffed into the mitts, squeezed inside compact paws such that your fingers ache from cramp. Clumsy and vaguely animalistic, yet dangerous given the capacitors wrapped around your forearms. Enough power to kill a wimpy man like you.

You notice the colour scheme, recognising the yellow, black, and blue. Your comrades were right to mock the programme. From the elbows down you have the same colour as a Luxray. A real-life electric pokemon - made out of an odd, protective rubber. Although, the synthetic latex is stifling. Unnatural. The rubber suit transforms the concept of an organic creature into a mechanical, abstract weapon. 

You have to admit, that's kinda cool. 

Jim attaches the neurotransmitter over your ears for you. The headband tracks your brainwaves and allows mental control of the gloves. It's uncomfortable and has a habit of slipping off, but the band is what makes your paws work...hopefully. 

To make the geekiness even worse, the headband is fitted with two dishes either side for information relay — Blue-rimmed, yellow ear-like protrusions that had a strangely organic look. 

"Ok. Stand on the mark and give it a whirl." Jim ushers you to the centre of the room. "We've set up some conductors in the corner. Just see if the gloves respond...and if you can hit anything." 

"I-I'll try." You stammer, already sweating under the thick rubber coating your arms. The thick rubber thwarts any attempts to wiggle your fingers. Sheesh, how powerful was this weapon? Likely enough electricity to kill you this time. "I...I can do this..." 

"Good." Jim recedes behind a thick screen, not aware that you were talking to yourself. The man communicates with a load more techies watching through a glass wall into a protected room. Right, the cameras must be rolling. Jim gives you a thumbs up.

Okay... 

Holding your breath, you raise your arms. Hands outstretched. _Focus._

The stance feels silly. Ears hot, you bury your embarrassment and try to concentrate on your palms. Okay. Focus. You stare at the metal poles to absorb whatever charge is produced. There's a slight tingle. The latex tightens, skin squeezing and…

**ZZZZUZAAPZPP!**

There's no recoil but you jump back in shock, cutting the flow instantly. The afterimage of the bright yellow electricity remains in your eyes, showing an arc of static from your two hands to a number of metal conductors. Your shoulder hurt, body shaking with a sudden rush. After a moment's hesitation, you finally pull in a breath. Fuck! Y-You just did that? Staring at your paws, and the thick scent of rubber fills your nostrils. Your hands quiver, heart pounding with the thrill of controlling so much power. That was AWESOME. 

"Great!" Jim shouts in his flat voice. "Again." 

This time you widen your stance, a silly grin spreading across your face. 

You lift your hands and twitch your digits. Ready. 

**ZZZZUZAAPZZZZAAAAAZPPZ!**

Another shot leaves you buzzing. Hair standing on end, your body crackles with small flashes of static dancing across your latex-covered arms. It's enough to numb the pain of your squashed-up fingers. The more you use them, the more natural the squeaky paws become. 

"Alright!" Your handler seems happy with the progress, "We're going to try the claws now. They're retractable and will deliver charge on contact, see if you can open them up."

Your eyes brighten in excitement. Oh, this was sooo cool! Focusing on your paws once more, you tried to imagine how the claws would feel. You're already dizzy from the power of the capacitors strapped down your forearms, but that doesn't stop you from wanting more. To be lethal. Not Sparky the wimp, but a real soldier. Your brain spins for the right trigger. 

You hear something click. 

The sensation is incomprehensibly satisfying. You grin stupidly, watching four razor-sharp steel claws extend out from each of your two paws. Electricity arcs between them, static numbing your hands until the sensation of wielding three-inch claws is almost natural. 

You grin, glancing back to your handler. The lights overhead dim and splutter from the sheer amount of voltage danging between your paws. 

"Let's see what you can do!" Jim watches on with delight. 

The test is over ten minutes later when the capacitors fail to recharge. You've shredded the sandbags which you've been effortlessly sinking your claws into. Almost wistfully, you peel off the latex. After the adrenaline of being in control of so much raw power, the come-down leaves you wilted. You're a sorry sight. Thick, rubbery forearms are replaced by skinny human wrists once more. 

With a sigh, you try to ingrain the euphoria of firing electricity out of your paws to memory. If only the boys from the canteen could have seen you then! Sparky would be said in reverence, instead of a mocking tone. 

"OK, we want to try some bio-charging capacitors." Jim interrupts your daydreaming. "You've got to wear this for the next three days. We're going to monitor how much electricity you can naturally produce from your body. Don't take it off." 

"Huh? Not even for showers?" You gape, eyeing the armload of latex that Jim drags out of a cardboard box, shaking it out to reveal a glossy tube. It's got the same black and blue colouration. Armholes have been moulded into the thick rubber. Huh, some kind of shirt? Or vest top, given the lack of sleeves. 

"No. It doesn't come off. You got that?" 

"Yessir!" you respond instinctively to the man's firm tone.

Twenty minutes later, Jim pats you on the back and sends you out of the door. 

Unlike when you first entered, you leave the facility with a loud squeak. The techs wanted to field test the new kit, and you were their guinea pig. Or, at least, a soldier wearing a tight latex suit which stretched up from your stomach to your shoulders. It's a constricting top which fits you like a glove, emphasising how little muscle you have across your chest and abdomen. Blue on the belly and fading to black around your rump. Yep, these guys loved their Pokemon. At least you could hide the latex under your shirt! 

Or so your thought...

"Did you just squeak?" Bob looks up from his meal when you sit down in the mess that evening. You try not to wriggle, knowing that every twitch of the latex causes the material to stretch and squeal like the surface of a balloon. 

"Yeah." You admit, staring down into your slop, "Just roll with it." 

"They'll be calling you-"

"Just don't." You cut through. 

Over the three days that you wear the latex top, it steadily becomes evident you haven't been told everything. 

Something about the suit changes how your body behaves. You never grow short of breath nor run out of energy. Even during the morning fitness training that fresh recruits do each sunrise, your body seems unbothered by the four-mile run. The rubber is tight, but in an oddly pleasant way. It's warm too. Under the pouring rain, the thick latex is like a thermal vest, turning the gruelling cold into a comfortable heat. 

Somehow, the shirt also seems to amplify your body's natural energy reserves. 

The buildup of electricity, as predicted by the techs, is gradual. Your body begins to adjust to the tight-fitting rubber vest as the advanced circuitry in the latex starts to use your organic energy reserves to charge and store electricity. The collected static creates a perpetual tickle across your chest...and only gets worse. By day three your body is buzzing with so much energy that static zaps between your fingers. Even more weird is how this electricity seems to supplement your own energy reserves. Increasing the stamina your body has beyond its natural limits. 

On the third day you practically sprint your morning laps, muscles burning through the electrical charge stored wrapped around your rib-cage. Beating your personal best for the third day in a row gets you a few questioning looks from the other recruits. Only the muffled _squeak squeak squeak_ under your shirt suggests something is different. Nonetheless, you're no longer the runt trailing at the back of the group.

"Eh." Jim hears you explain the strange properties of the rubber with a nonchalant shrug. It's clear he doesn't entirely believe your story, even with your hair standing on end and your feet tapping the floor like you're high from a fourth cup of coffee. "That's a good thing, right? I mean, whatever you can get, hey Sparky?" 

The man gives you a prod in the ribs. Normally, it would have been just that, given how skinny you are. But while wearing the latex vest, the older soldier's thump bounces off your torso with a burst of static. 

"Ok, that's fucking cool." You grin, tensing your abs and enjoying the pressure of the rubber coating against your muscles. "Anything else I can try?" 

A week later and lunchtime in the mess is just as noisy. However, unlike usual, you don't get the same reaction upon taking a seat. People know you're a part of the cutting edge experimental programme. Given what you're wearing, it's fairly obvious. 

The new suit-partial is sleek, elegant, and intended for long term use. It's designed like a half-length wetsuit, or one of those lycra cycling outfits professionals wear. Thick rubber encases your torso in a glistening, _squeaky_ coating. Latex reaches up to your neck, down to just above your elbows, and ending at your knees. A zipper on your back is out of reach. Jim had already commanded that it's not to come off for a week. Not even to use the bathroom. You trust your handler is right about the new waste-disposal system merged into the shiny black latex padding your buttcheeks. 

Although you can cover the half-length suit under your shirt and trousers, the baby blue colour of your chest is still apparent through the fabric. 

You sit down with a squeak, the rubber shirt creaking taut around your shoulders. Even after two days, your electricity reserves have built-up so high that you're always twitchy, ready to unleash the static charge tickling your neck and shoulders. 

Your tail wags behind you, relaying sensations directly into your neural uplink chip. 

To replace the cumbersome headband, the suit relay was instead surgically implanted into your brain. Jim said it'll dissolve and need replacing every three months...but didn't explain the confusing sensations it would translate from your tail. The appendage helps with balance and to dispel any unwanted electricity. Black, with a pointed yellow star on the end, the tail also serves as a deadly weapon itself. You're surprised you're allowed to keep it, given they've removed your paws. You feel naked without the firm rubber caressing your wrists. 

The cafeteria sounds different these days. 

You spoon gruel into your mouth, savouring the flavour. _Nutrition levels rising to optimal_ , your suit tells you through the uplink. Latex stretches down to your wrists, capacitors ready to charge once your paws are installed. The lack of insulating rubber over your hands means the shock will kill you if you try to use them. Your handler said that's why they installed limiters in your neural chip. In reality, it means you struggle to focus on the absence of your paws for more than a few seconds. 

That doesn't stop your feet tapping together. There's so much adrenaline seething inside your gut that your hair stands on end. _Energy levels: fifty-four percent._ That was enough voltage to kill a normal human. Your tolerances were high but not able to withstand abnormal amounts of electricity. Not yet. You grin, impatient for when Jim will allow you to wield more power. 

Bob watches you with a dazed expression across the table. He's not the only one. You eat your slop, head down so as not to draw attention to yourself. Almost as if you didn't have your blue-rimmed relay ears perking out from your hair. The updated headband provides you with a heightened sense of hearing. You're able to locate every sound in the room, isolate and amplify it. 

Still, you ignore the barrack bully when he storms over to your table. 

"Whatcha wearing, nerd. Off to comic con?"

"Sparky's hungr-" Bob tries to calm the developing situation. The bully shouts him down without a second thought, 

"I didn't ask you're fuckin' opinion." The bully juts out his chin. The man's chest is so endowed with muscle that it barely fits inside his shirt. You continue to eat. _Threat level: Medium._

"Hey. Nerd. I'm talking to you." 

The bully bumps your shoulder with a fist. The latex takes the impact, a short burst of static recovering the blow and ensuring the attacker gets a small shock in the process. You pause, placing down your spoon even as the bully retracts his fist in shock. _Energy level: high. Threat level: high._ **_Enemy?_ **

You curl your fingers, disturbed by how gangly they feel. It's a struggle to use human fingers when you've become accustomed to the elegant paws of the Luxray suit. You twitch your thumbs, wishing you still have your claws. A flash of the razor blades would soon make the bully leave you alone. 

"Hey, he's just playing with you." Bob's face has lost all colour. He motions over the table towards you, eyes narrowed and tail flicking. 

Or they were!? The trigger word 'play' recently inserted into your brain distils your emotions into giddy joy. **Play!** Jim _loved_ to play with you, maybe this man would be the same? The tin cup clasped in your hand turns black, the paint charred from electricity. Static flickers across your suit, toes curling with the pleasure of so much _energy._

Hair standing on end, you turn to the bully with a grin. The man wanted to _play_ with you!? Given the bully's face, however, your mental programming is at odds. He looks pale, eyes wide in the emotion your neural chip tags as fear. You store the information in your memory for later use. 

"I'll pass." The bully shrugs and the tense situation diffuses into an uneasy silence. "Uh, enjoy your slop." 

Nobody messes with you anymore. You have mixed feelings about that. Your implant reminds you that humans are friends (unless they are **enemies** ), but many of the recruits are wary around you. Thankfully, things change. You're not allowed to share the same training with them anymore. Though, you're kinda glad, given how easy their exercises are. 

_Your_ exercise programme is much harder. The intense training is more suitable for your endless stamina and combat skills which far outstrip the inferior soldiers. Their pathetically weak training was laughable! 

They give you your claws back when you enter the test field. Nobody else is allowed in when you've got your claws out, cradling your digits and enjoying how good it feels to be charged up to full capacity. Your suit talks to you through your mental link; capacitors relay charge, stability, discharge time, and recovery rate. The numbers are natural, _playful_ even as your sheath and unsheath your claws. Efficient. _Lethal._

With your shirt and trousers removed, you're free to train your body to the instructions Jim transfers through your uplink. Discharge tests, stamina, building muscles with gymnastics, weights, endurance. Everything needed to become faster. Stronger. **Good job** . Jim says that when you perform well. Sometimes they get you to use other things with your paws, heavy weapons that shoot lasers or propel bolts. You use machines which normally require a small electrical generator for firing only one shot. The capabilities of your suit make energised weapons a breeze, channelling charge from your arms into the stock of a railgun. Shoot. Load. Faster. Shoot. Load. Shoot. **Good Job.**

The new barracks the army provides includes a room to yourself. It's a short walk across the road to the research facilities where you spend much of your time. 

"Hey Sparky!" Jim greets you when your pad into the lab. "How's my big feline feline-ing?"

The pun is followed by a knuckle rub. Unlike before, the pressure against your head is an enjoyable experience. Extra force is needed to feel the scratching through the rubber across your neck and shoulders. You practically purr, chest squeaking as you relax under the petting. 

_Threat level: none._

Now wearing iteration six of the suit, you've grown to love visiting the research labs. Every week you have a new suit to wear with yet more features and more powerful upgrades. You wear the latex permanently, feeling naked without the sensation of tight five-millimetre rubber encapsulating your arms and legs. You can still take it off, though you loathed stripping down. Not since the suit added new self-cleaning features. You should be allowed to wear the rubber constantly! There was no need to defecate as the latex handled all waste products directly absorbed from your body, creating yet more electricity as a byproduct. A much more advanced system than before . It made you more efficient and capable of being sustained by the beautiful latex for longer. _Energy low (capacitors need refitting). Latex optimal. Oxygen optimal._

Unlike the suit, however, the neural uplink is one thing you can't take off. 

You scratch at the scar in the back of your head, aware of the metal chip etched onto your brain. It's a computer interface, allowing your thoughts to be translated into actions directly controlling the suit. _Brain activity high. Joy. Time until replacement needed: fifty-four days._

"Okay, shutdown interface," Jim speaks the command. 

You react instantly, 

"Disabling suit uplink." It's a fun game you play, replying with the correct responses and performing the appropriate actions. Jim tells you what to do. Your handler helped with things he called 'triggers' installed in your uplink, meaning you can react to commands faster than it would take even to _comprehend_ them. At first you're weary of the upgrade, but assigning such basic functions to a computer allows you to focus on your performance. 

"Alrighty. We've got a new suit for you to try Sparky. This one's the big deal." 

You strip off your current latex suit rather unwillingly. Feeling the fresh air against bare, pasty skin makes you shiver. It was disgusting to be without the protection of such thick, snug rubber. The constant pressure and pleasurable creaking of a plastic body is stripped away to leave you cold and naked. You feel alien in your own body. 

"Ok take this slow. There's a lot more going on in this suit. There might be lag until your neural chip recognises each function."

This new suit is a full-body latex mechanical frame within which you clamber into. There's still plenty of skintight rubber, yet also aluminium alloy supports to provide greater strength. At first, you're unsure why the proportions seem off. Jim helps open the back zipper of the suit, waving you to slip your arms down inside the front legs of the suit. 

You crouch onto your hands and knees, stepping your arms forward and down into the sleeves in turn. They're the same colouration as the original gauntlets, only tighter and thicker rubber than before. Your skin goose pimples in excitement, a small moan of pleasure escaping your lips as you slip into the rubber casing. Although balled into fists inside glistening black paws, your hands soon numb and you're met with the more natural sensation of four stubby digits. Much better! It's a relief to be able to flex your paws and enjoy the squeak of soft rubber. 

Your handler helps lift the latex up and around your shoulders. You tense your chest in preparation for the satisfaction of being under the squeaky shine of an inch of insulating rubber. The capacitors across your biceps aren't charged but you can _feel_ them, so needy for electricy that you shiver with the lusty cravings.

"It's alright Sparky. You'll be ready to go in a few minutes." Jim confirms.

He's already in the process of helping your legs into the back paws of the suit. You have to tense your weak human knees, sliding them into the much more substantial hindquarters of the Luxray suit. Unlike past iterations, this outfit is quadrupedal. The joints below your cramped thighs are mechanical; built of titanium, silicon, and sweet latex. Once the tech had zipped up the back of the suit, you give them a try, pushing yourself to all fours. 

You wobble, feline tail waving to maintain stability. From the neck down, you can feel the subsystems begin speaking to your neural implant. The entirety of your body, except for a very small looking human head, is encased with the agile feline body of a latex Luxray. You test each foot, unsheathing every sharp claw in turn, brain dizzy with the power of such a glorious form. Your mind whirls with satisfaction. Though, that might be the new mental programming installed into your implant... 

Your back legs, with the mechanical upgrades, feel like coiled springs. You know just from the feel of the incredible, tight latex coating that the strength in your back paws is incredible. You want to pounce, just to see how high you can leap. 

Jim's hand settles on your back, 

"One step at a time. We've got a fully integrated headpiece to try. Are you ready? Once this is in place, the trial begins and it won't be coming off again for a month."

You nod, neck straining a little to look up at the soldier. You wiggle your haunches, tail flicking in excitement for the final instalment. You can already feel each of your capacitors coming online — glorious electricity building, crackling, and coursing within your latex body. 

The headpiece your handler fits around your head feels like the final piece of a puzzle. 

It's like a mask, a thick rubber muzzle which slips around your head and chin. Jim works it on carefully, getting you to open your maw to squeeze a rubbery gag between your teeth. It's uncomfortable at first as the mask slides around your ears and over your hair. But you can't stop grinning. Every single inch of your body is coated with a centimetre of rubber. You're roughly aware you're looking down, but a virtual reality screen wedged over your eyes leaves your mind dizzy. Your vision is overwhelmed by the perfect image feed from the suit's synthetic eyes. You're isolated, numbed to all sensations from the outside world.

"Finish suit integration," Master commands, talking _at_ you rather than _to_ you. 

You don't recognise the trigger, even if your body does. 

There's a moment of panic as the suit suddenly constricts around you. The gag in the mask inflates, splitting your jaw apart and spilling a huge inflated wedge down into your throat. You try to splutter but even that is thwarted by the inability to breathe. A similar feeling is replicated in your rump as rubbery wedges rapidly swell inside every orifice, squeezing you so tightly under the latex wrappings that your fear you might burst.

Your heart pounds, your brain instinctively trying to fight the suit. Any resistance, however, if numbed by a burst of dopamine from your neural implant. **Good job!** The suit says, even as it contracts your chest. **Good job!** Well done! It congratulates the correct response even as the implant stops your heart. You freak until your neural chip manages the fear with cold, computer logic. It's not like a mechanical creature of rubber and metal needs such a thing. Nothing biological to break. No weakness in your pristine form. **Good job! Good job!**

The crushing sensation is over as quickly as it began, leaving your skin crawling... _glistening_. You quiver, any awareness of your body failing to recognise the dichotomy of your rubber hide. 

"So Sparky! How does it feel?" 

There's a loud squeak as your ears adjust to the new cacophony of sounds. They twitch on your head. Eyes fuzzy at first, your vision corrects itself to gaze around the test room. You take a step forward, enjoying the press of your thick rubber soles into the ground. _Perfect_ . Paw upgrades. You wiggle your four fat toes as the motion is translated precisely via your neural uplink. For all intents and purposes, the black paws _are_ your feet. And so much more agile, stronger, and squeaker than before! 

"Sparky? Speak." 

" **Lux!** " You reply in an instant, implants providing you with a dose of dopamine for the correct response. You sit, aware of all four of your paws on the ground. Your whole body glistens under the lab lighting, the latex squeaky and shiny as you wag your feline tail. _Squeak squeak squeak._

"Well done Sparky. Can you give your vital read-outs?"

"Nutrition: ERROR. Heart rate: ERROR. Bladder: ERR-"

"Stop!" Master interrupts your list, "Okay, we need to update the triggers." 

You nod, a little unsettled by the memory of your past suit. Following the suspension of the wearer in the bonding process, your suit should take-over all functions. There's no need to eat, sleep, poop, or pee. Grrr! You shiver at the thought of such disgusting basic functions. All you really need are replacement capacitors every few months and regular oiling of your latex. Normal, satisfying, requirements for a body like yours. The thought of the organic necessity to eat and excrete makes your retch. 

"Hey, it's ok." Master pats at your head. You enjoy the friction of his fingers against your latex skin. You blink slowly, your feline body responding happily to the petting. 

"List this iteration as four weeks." Your Handler calls to somebody else, though his fingers are still behind your ears. "We'll check his mental state at the end of the month. For now, let's assume the programming is reversible." 

You ignore the human chatter. Your ears only listen in for the correct triggers that awake your command-response algorithms. Always ready. Alert. **Good job!** Humming to himself, Master returns his attention to you. 

"Alright. Want to test your new paws, Sparky?" 

" **Lux!** " You shiver with excitement. " **Luxray!** "

It doesn't take long for you to adapt to the new suit. You don't leave the lab, undergoing constant monitoring as you begin to adjust to your new, quadrupedal form. The mental hierarchies in your brain assign roles, threat levels, and the chain of command. Master is at the top, of course. He also seems the most comfortable around you, the emotional intelligence upgrade in your headset suggesting _fear_ in the other soldiers you meet. That confuses you. They were tagged as friends in your memory chip; only **enemies** should fear you! 

Combat training starts a few days later. It still takes that long for your body to charge. Although insulated by so much rubber, you can feel the electricity crackle across your back, legs, and trickling down to the tip of your razor-sharp tail. It's a pleasant feeling, but sometimes baffling. Your brain stutters as you stare down at your front paws. Sheathing and unsheathing your claws, you sometimes feel a ghostly sensation. Like somebody else is watching from behind your eyes. Almost as if your powerful, glistening latex body is nothing more than a second skin. 

You shake, dispelling such disgusting thoughts. 

"Sparky! Heel!" Master calls. You react instantly, setting your backside down in the dirt with your tail wagging. Your neural implant hits your brain with dopamine. **Good job!**

Master scratches your head, rubbing around your ears as you purr, enjoying the squeak of his fingers against the rubber. Each wag of your tail makes your rubber coating squeal. Sometimes you wiggle just to elicit the pleasurable squeaking sounds. 

"Ok, Combat simulation. The intel is being uploaded to your memory chip. Respond."

"Downloaded." You reply instantly to the mental trigger. The words are mechanical, a sound that pops out of your muzzle rather than your throat. With no need to eat nor breathe, your muzzle is solely present for slashing and tearing. Fangs as sharp as knives, one of the few parts of your not composed of squeaky, indestructible rubber. You're the perfect fighting machine. 

The imagery installed in your brain sets _threat level to high_ almost immediately. Information saturates your awareness. A hostile complex set in the forest. Armed guards, trucks to the north-east, and five sniper nests. Stealth was needed, but it was going to be difficult. 

A growl escapes your throat. 

"Hey, focus!" you handler reminds you. You manage to compose yourself, following the man's orders without question. 

There's nothing in your but submission towards your Master. He is the top priority in your hierarchy algorithms and must be obeyed at all times. However, in subsystems even the techs aren't aware of, other memories are tampering with your mind. You recall the man's petting, his knuckle-rubs on your rubbery skull. The times you play together! He is your friend as much as your Master. As for yourself, you're Master's pet as much as his assigned battle suit. 

You're often confused about why they use the word 'suit' to describe a formidable Luxray like you. 

But not now. Now, your mind reels with battle reports, weather conditions, and the scents drifting on the wind. Unsheathing your claws, your ears perk up for any and all sounds. With no pesky heartbeat to interfere with sound detection, your body is utterly silent as you identify and tag every decibel of noise in the surrounding three kilometres. It's a similar response to your vision. You flick through visual, infra-red, ultraviolet, and x-rays within seconds, scanning everything within view.

"Make us proud, Sparky." Your Master pats your shoulder. Your collar rubs at your latex skin. It's there to make sure you're recognised as property of the military. The identification tag is unique to your suit, though your field title _'Sparky'_ has been etched into the leather. 

You tense, eyes almost at chest height for your handler as you reconfigure the data file with current measurements of the local terrain, locating yourself on the installed map. The last reported location of enemies triggers threat levels to maximum. 

Static arcs between your jaws. Grinning, you revel in the power surging through your body. 

"Playtime." Master commands. 


End file.
